


Love Me and Despair

by Dernhelm



Series: Chronicle of Scars [1]
Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Coming of Age, Elves, F/F, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Issues, Lesbian Sex, Rough Sex, Swordfighting, love is not enough
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-01-30
Updated: 2003-01-30
Packaged: 2018-01-10 02:32:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1153723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dernhelm/pseuds/Dernhelm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A young Eowyn comes of age in a darkening Edoras, cursing the female body she was born in. To prove herself as a warrior, she embarks on a foolish quest that leads her into Lothlorien…and into the arms of the Lady of Light. Even as Galadriel teaches Eowyn the power—and pleasure—there is in being a woman, she knows the girl is marked for a greater destiny, and she must convince the girl to face her fate even at the cost of their happiness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Secrets and Swords

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first piece of slash fiction I ever wrote, back in January of 2003. I couldn't help but fix the grammar errors and tighten things up for posting here, but the story remains the same. It was originally written for the Library of Moria's femmeslash challenge, where it won an honorable mention. 
> 
> This is a mix of both movie and book canon, as are all of my _Chronicle of Scars_ stories.

Prologue: Ride to Destiny

By all rights it was dawn. However, where the sun should have peered its sleepy face above the distant mountains, only smoke and shadow burned, manifestation of the evil spreading from the heart of Mordor. All was muted in that foul darkness—even the thunder of countless hooves—as the Riders of Rohan speed through the gloom to Minas Tirith.

Of all the hearts in that company that beat beneath shirts of chain and leather, none beat heavier than young Dernhelm's. He was no novice to battle, true, but untried in war of this magnitude. In the back of the line he rode upon his gray mare, careful not to crowd the secret passenger under his cloak, the halfling Merry. The hobbit’s little heart had burned so hotly to join the men in battle that Dernhelm had not been able refuse him his chance for greatness. The warrior was all too familiar with the bitter sting of rejection, having always been left behind as a burden, dismissed as a body of little use.

Despite the company, there was little chance for conversation with his fellow traveler. Dernhelm was left with long, arduous hours of riding in which to contemplate his most certain doom, for Dernhelm did not expect to return from this war. This dark thought was not a result of the great Shadow, as were many of the ill thoughts that plagued the other riders. This stemmed from a much older, deeper darkness that had clouded Dernhelm for years. There are only so many times the human heart can taste the bitterness of rejection and still have the will to beat true, only so many betrayals before all hope fades to ice, leaving nothing but frost where love used to grow.

As he rode, Dernhelm was prisoner to his memories as much as he was of his hidden truth. For underneath the layers of armor, the man-boy Dernhelm is in truth the Lady Éowyn. Her breasts were bound by cloth and her golden hair concealed in a mantle of iron, all traces of feminine beauty replaced by the rigid features of a warrior.

Hardened against her pain, she rides to death to forget the person she never truly was, and to face the destiny that has cost her everything, including the woman—nay, the great Lady—who stole and broke her tender heart.

**********

Chapter 1: Stories and Swordplay

Éowyn came to Edoras as a young girl, no older than seven, clutching the hand of her older brother, Éomer, as they were escorted by pitying stewards to the private chamber of their uncle, King Théoden. Éowyn stood in the cavernous chill of the great hall, refusing to weep as Théoden gathered their small bodies in a gentle hug and whispered promises of love and care in the stead of their freshly-buried parents. She did not want to show her sorrow, her weakness, for it had been the long hours of tears and curses in the name of their fallen father, Éomund, that had driven their mother to her deathbed. Her uncle had mistaken her determination for shock, and had her promptly put to bed, fearing the grief of losing both her parents and being removed so suddenly from her home had been too much for a little girl’s delicate sensibilities. So even on her first night under the roof of Edoras, Éowyn lay alone in the darkness, too heavy with grief to sleep, too proud to fully feel the cleansing sorrow she so needed.

Éomer quickly found his place in Edoras, finding comfort in the company of the Riders of Rohan. He would listen to tales of battles in far-away lands while helping them polish their gleaming blades, and tending to their steeds as they rested after long rides. Éowyn was always just as fascinated by their stories of war, but whenever she would attempt to join the lively fireside chatter, the men’s voices would grow still, until one would gently suggest she return to the circles of women, as the men’s tales of blood and beasts would surely fill her sweet mind with foul dreams.

There was nothing Éowyn despised more than the idle prattle of the women of the house, though, as they gossiped amongst themselves and seemed to have no care about the world beyond the walls of the city. So, rather than join the women, she would curl up behind the barrels of ale in the great hall, and listening as the men regaled each other with tales tall and broad. She would drink in their stories as they their mead, the words transporting her past her uncomfortable hiding place. Hidden as she was, she heard even more stories than her brother, for there were bawdy tales and dark myths that the men withheld from the ears of a lad not yet grown to manhood. 

Of all their stories, though, the ones that captivated her most were the legends of the Witch of the Golden Wood, who was a beautiful and terrible elf who dwelt in a forest north of Rohan. She would enchant men to her will, and turn them against their brothers for her own gain. Lovely and cruel, any who looked upon her could not help but love her, and only those of the strongest heart could free themselves from her power. Éowyn’s pulse would beat just a bit faster as a rider would boast of an encounter with the sorceress--as one always did when this legend was told--and go into great detail of the pleasure he'd given the witch that left her so exhausted he was able to slip her magical grasp. The other soldiers would guffaw and call his bluff, and the tale-teller would be forced to sit down again, red-faced and sulking into his ale.

As the years passed, and Éowyn grew and matured, she found that she could no longer easily hide among the barrels, and those nights of tales came to an end. Had she remained small enough to stay, though, she would have heard the men’s talk grow darker, less jovial, as rumors of evil arising in the East filtered through the halls.

Also in this time, an advisor came to the king, his hair as dark as the wings of a ragged crow, his skin as thin and pasty as maggot-flesh. He was called Gríma, and from the moment his covetous eyes darted across her freshly ripened figure, Éowyn despised and mistrusted him. Thanks to those bawdy tales she'd heard, she knew what dark desires Gríma’s gaze held, even as his words seemed sweet and kind. Whenever he approached her alone, she would stalk past him proudly, without flinching, ignoring the platitudes he pitifully spouted. Even so, unease would churn in her belly for hours after each encounter, and she went out of her way to avoid his shadowy presence.

On the eve of her eighteenth year, she approached her brother Éomer. He had long since grown to manhood, and his sternly handsome face often reminded her of her lost father. It made it easier to confess her ill feelings about Gríma. She was relieved that her brother shared her trepidation, despite the unfathomed respect their uncle had for the mysterious man. When she told Éomer of the lust in Gríma’s rheumy eyes, and of the covert attempts he had made to win her heart, her brother’s knuckles tightened around her fingers.

“If that filthy creature _ever_ attempts to lay his hands upon you, then I will take great pleasure in strangling him with his own entrails!” Éomer had growled, fingering the hilt of his sword with his free hand. He carried a blade at all times now that he had become a Rider of the Rohirrim.

“You’ll have to pry my fingers from his throat before you can hang him.” Éowyn smiled darkly. But as her eyes fell to Éomer’s sword, her heart grew cold again. “Now that you are a soldier, you will not always be here to protect me, my brother. Duty comes before kin, and although I am not afraid, I cannot always look to you for protection.”

After a moment of silence, Éomer drew his sword, and to his sister’s amazement, placed the sculpted hilt into her small hand. The blade was not as heavy as she had imagined it would be. It felt...natural. As though it had been made to be held by her.

“Then I will teach you how to protect yourself, Éowyn. Long I have known how much you desire to learn the way of the sword. I have heard your bitter fights with our good king-uncle over your desire to train with me. I know he thinks you too fair and fragile, but I truly know you to be the strongest and most valiant of any woman in Rohan.” His eyes gleamed with pride, and Éowyn’s heart soared.

Her training was quick, yet intense, for Éomer only had a short time in which to teach his sister how to wield a blade with deadly confidence. But she was ravenous for the knowledge, and was the quickest pupil Éomer had ever seen. All too soon, though, the rumors of evil forces became truth, and the spears of the Riders were needed at the borders of Rohan. Duty called.

On the night before their first parting, the siblings rode away from Edoras into the plains. The city they left behind them was still, filled only with the whimpers of soldier’s wives as they sighed their fears into their husband's kisses.

Lit by the light of the waxing moon, Éomer and Éowyn crossed swords a final time. In the song of their clashing blades they could almost hear the whisper of impending dread, filling them with the hollow realization that this would be the last time they would have the peace to practice. The duel was exhilarating, and as her blade cut through the air, she was mesmerized by how much it appeared that she wielded a beam of moonlight, the glinting radiance slicing through the darkness in her mind. In this musing she lost the battle, as Éomer’s sword swept hers out of her grasp and into the night.

“Do not ever let your eye or mind wander from your opponent in a battle, no matter what the distraction,” Éomer panted as he held his sword to her throat, “for it may cost you your life.”

Glowering, Éowyn recovered her blade from the dew-dampened grass. Despite her bitterness, she quietly internalized her skilled brother’s words, adding it to the catalog of lessons she’d absorbed over the weeks.

Seeing his sister’s disappointment at losing their last duel, Éomer tried to cheer her.

“Were you my brother I would be the proudest Capitan of all men to have such a gifted swordsman at my side.”

His well-meaning words only managed to transform the scratch to a wound, and Éowyn looked at him with eyes flashing cold as steel in the moonlight.

“But since I am just your sister, a lowly woman, I can never hold that place of honor. I must remain content watching the horizon from the safety of the gates, hoping for the flutter of your banner on the wind!” She spat the words at him like venom.

Éomer sighed, and sheathed his sword. Taking his sister’s hand, he tenderly lifted her stern jaw, forcing her icy gaze to rest on his eyes, filled with pity and love.

“Never will you be lowly, Éowyn, for you are a great Lady born of kings, and the passion of your lineage shines in your noble eyes. But sister, you have a duty to your line, as do I. Mine lays in the spilling of blood for the protection of our people, yours comes in the tending of them.” Éomer’s words were firm, yet gentle, and he could see the tension slowly draining from her taunt body.

“Now more than ever our uncle-king needs the guidance and love of his kin,” he continued, “as I sense the Worm-tongued scoundrel holds more sway over him each day. Watch over him, as I cannot. You are the hope of our people, Éowyn. Do not abandon them.”

Éowyn knew the truth in her brother’s words, and was quiet, if not content. They stood a while in the green field, listening to the soft rustle of the wind in the long grasses, her slender, pale hand clasped in his, large and calloused. They shared the quiet fear that all families do upon separation, but hers was magnified by the restless ghosts of their parent’s death. If she were to lose Éomer, she would be the last of the line of Éomund, and although she loved her uncle Théoden and cousin Théodred deeply, she knew to her core she would be alone. Théodred would join her brother in the coming ride, and her dear uncle’s mind had been wandering lately, taken to long hours locked in council with Gríma, leaving little time for his sister-daughter. He rarely sought the sun any longer, and his lack of activity had brought an edge of frailty to his otherwise strong form. The seed of fear had been planted in her, and she dreaded the long months ahead filled with only the shadows to listen to her secrets and prayers.

The following morn, as she stood alone at the gates of Edoras, she watched with eyes frosted with unfallen tears as Éomer raised his hand to her in final salute, and disappeared over the horizon with the rest of the Rohirrim. Slowly, making sure she could see no more of her brother, she returned to the house of Théoden, which already felt more a cell than a home.

She took her brother’s words to heart, and cared for her uncle Théoden as best she could. She made light conversation at meals to brighten his sagging face, and sought him out in his few free moments to lure him to activities that he had enjoyed only a few months before. She took cheer in the fleeting smiles that would flicker across his lips, and how the lines of worry that creased his brow transformed briefly into wrinkles of laughter. He would kiss her cheeks and thank her for lifting his dark spirits.

“You are the bright star in my winter night, Éowyn,” he would say to her in those tiny moments of mirth, “you are truly the hope of our people.”

But despite her best efforts, a dark hand seemed to be tightening its grasp upon Théoden’s soul. More and more often he took to sitting in his darkened throne room in despair, at times alone, but most often with Gríma.

As the weeks crawled by, and little word of the Riders was heard, Éowyn herself became shrouded with sadness. She tried so hard to please her uncle, it left her weary at day’s end, and she would fall into restless dreams tainted with loss and sorcerous words.


	2. The Worm's Plot

Gríma was devious. He knew the Lady Éowyn’s secret, how her heart ached to travel beyond the walls of Edoras, wandering across great plains and mountains in the company of fierce men, seeking great deeds to do.

Though she went out of her way to avoid Gríma in the day, in the night he could find her mind easily, open and vulnerable in the cloak of sleep. There, he would whisper unsettling thoughts into her dreams, dredging up old losses and new fears, planting black seeds in her tender thoughts. She would awake each morning even more exhausted than she had when she had fallen asleep, and every time the sun rose without word of her brother, she would slip further into despair.

Thus, Gríma worked his black magic upon her in her dreams. If he could not control her through love, he would through fear. And control her he must. Gríma’s grasp upon the king was near complete, save for the shreds of hope Théoden held in the loyalty of his niece. If Gríma were able to sever that joy, to take the last fading beams of light from the king’s heart, then Théoden’s will would be his to own.

His opportunity for treachery came soon. Two full cycles of the moon after the Riders had departed from Edoras, a lone messenger came riding from across the plains. His banner was tattered and bloodstained, but waving triumphantly in the cold light nonetheless. Wormtongue had the good fortune of being the only one to spy the rider in the starlight, and the retch mounted his steed and raced to meet the messenger before anyone else had a chance to see him.

“Welcome home, good solider. How goes the fight, friend?” Gríma’s voice was oiled velvet to the Rider’s weary mind. “Do our men fare well against the dark forces?”

“Aye, sir Gríma, wherever the Rohirrim ride they leave trails of Orc-blood in their wake, and most who rode out from the city still sit upon their horses.” The rider panted, and gratefully took the skin of water that Gríma held out to him.

“How do the kin of our King fare? The Lords Théodred and Éomer?” Gríma asked with burning eyes as he watched the young soldier take another greedy gulp of the tainted water he had offered him.

The messenger smiled. “No finer pair of soldiers have ever rode across the war-grounds of Middle-Earth than the kin of Théoden, save perhaps the King himself in his days of youth…”

The soldier’s face grew pale, and his features suddenly contorted in pain. He doubled over in his saddle, and a low moan escaped his lips a second before he bathed the ground before him in bloody vomit.

“Soldier! You are ill!” Gríma faked concerned. He prided himself on his carefully crafted reactions to the horrors he unleashed upon others. “Quickly, boy, I must get you to the house of Théoden!”

The soldier made no response as Wormtongue lifted him out of his saddle, and draped him across his own horse. As they rode, Gríma inspected the soldier, and seeing several minor wounds recently healed underneath his thin tunic, he tore at them to bring the blood flowing freshly. When they arrived at the gates of the city the soldier indeed appeared at the brink of death, and the faces of the watchmen were grave as they aided Gríma in carrying the still body into a bedchamber.

Throughout the night, Wormtongue fed the poor soldier poisoned water as foul as his poisoned words, so within hours of his arrival, the soldier only had the strength to jabber about the failing of the Rohirrim—nay, of all men—under the unconquerable tide of evil.

**********

Éowyn awoke from her nightmares with a start when she heard a great banging on her chamber door. Draping a warm cloak about her and grabbing her sword from under her bed, she cautiously opened the door a crack. She was surprised to see Gríma standing there, and even more surprised to see the tears that flowed down his cheeks.

“My Lady, thank the stars that you are awake! Come, quickly! A messenger has arrived from the Riders, and he refuses to speak to any but you!” Gríma loudly blew his nose for extra theatrics.

“Does he bring word of my kin?” Éowyn asked breathlessly, her heart constricting in her ribcage as she strode into the hall. “Does he bear a message from Éomer?”

“I do not know, my Lady, for through the night all he could do was wail in his pain. He is badly wounded, and his eyes hold the bitterness of defeat.” Gríma panted as he tried to keep up with the long-legged girl’s swift pace. “He has finally come to his senses enough to ask for you, but when I questioned him, he refused to speak unless it was to you.”

Arriving at the door of the dying soldier, Gríma held the heavy wood aside so that Éowyn could pass. She gasped at the sight of the man on the bed, pale and bandaged with bloody cloths. How he shivered, even in the warmth of the fire-lit room, as though he were naked in the snow.

“I will leave you to your questions, Lady,” Wormtongue made his voice grave as he could, “but do not overtire him, for he stands on the brink of death, and the stress may be too much for him to bear.”

She nodded, blind to Wormtongue’s manipulations. He softly closed the door behind her, and she sat on the edge of the firm bed, taking the messenger’s hand in hers.

“Good sir, please awake. You have asked to see the Lady Éowyn, and she is here to listen.” Her voice trembled as much as his chilled hand did in hers, and for a moment she feared that he was too far gone to understand her words.

For a long moment only the sound of the Rider’s labored breathing filled the room, and Éowyn attempted to wet his lips with the cup of water at his side. But before the first drop had passed the messenger’s lips, his eyelids fluttered open.

He turned his head slowly, wearily, and his iron-grey eyes met hers. Before he had even uttered a word, she tasted despair in the back of her mouth, for in his eyes lay only the empty promise of death.

“My Lady,” the messenger’s voice was strained and weak, and she had to lean closer to hear him properly, “the battle is almost lost. Many good men have fallen facing the wicked forces of the Orcs, and our numbers are not great enough to subdue them.” He paused to cough, and it seemed to Éowyn that he struggled to find the words he wanted to say.

“I bring word from your brother, the Lord Éomer. He sent me to bring you to battle, for he knows you are skilled, and needs your help in the field.”

Éowyn’s stomach knotted, and her eyes burned into the soldier’s.

“Tell me, where is he?”

“He wants you to meet the remainder of the company near the Field of Celebrant, far north of Rohan. The Riders regroup themselves at the edge of the great river Anduin, and your brother will meet you upon the shore. There they have armor waiting, do not weigh your steed with the unnecessary weight.” The boy faltered, and again his eyes betrayed a conflict that Éowyn did not then understand. “Hurry, my Lady, for his voice was most desperate, and he said to me, ‘do not rest until my sister is at my side, for she is my one hope to vanquish this enemy.’”

As soon as those words passed the messenger’s cracked lips, his body gave a terrible shudder, and a high wail rose from his throat. When next his head lolled to face her, his eyes were blank and still, and she knew then that he was gone, as surely as she knew what she had to do. Slowly she pulled the blanket over the tortured face before her, and whispered a quick prayer to speed his soul to its rest.

In her haste departing the deathbed of the soldier, she did not notice Gríma huddling in the shadows of the corridor, invisible to all save the mice that scurried away from his presence in fear. He had to restrain the cackle that threatened to bubble forth from his ugly mouth, as he watched Éowyn stride towards her chamber with purpose and determination. He had learned early in his education with the White Wizard that a poisoned body leaves the mind most vulnerable to control, and the soldier had never had a chance against the black skills of Wormtongue.

The castle was still swaddled in the quiet of sleep, as sunrise was still many hours away. Swiftly she packed her traveling bag, bundling only a fresh change of clothes, a thin, yet warm sleeping roll, her map scroll, flint and steel, and the soft rags she used to soak her monthly bleeding. She dressed in an old training outfit Éomer had long since outgrown, and secured her sword to the belt at her waist. Draped in her riding cloak of midnight blue, she stealthily made her way to the kitchen, where she added several cakes of traveling bread, a skin of water, and sachets of dried meats and fruits to her pack, provisions enough to last her the long ride.

Finally, her heart beating so loudly in her chest she feared the echo of it would wake the house, she slipped through her uncle’s chamber door, and bestowed a kiss upon his forehead as he slept. He did not stir as she stroked his wrinkled cheek one more time, and she was suddenly torn with the desire to stay and help him.

But, the words of the messenger flooded through her mind once again, and she knew she could not abandon her brother to a lonely death in the field. Théoden was strong, she told herself, and surely he would not decline further before her return. She would show him what a fine soldier she could be, and the pride it would bring to him would surely outweigh any melancholy her absence would.

With that thought bolstering her courage, she made her way to the stables and readied her mare, Windfola, for the voyage. It took only a few coins to buy the silence of the stable-boy as he watched, wide eyed, as she unlocked the stable gate and rode Windfola out into the night.

As she raced through the cold predawn, her heart galloped in time to the pace of her horse’s stride, and she felt truly free for the first time in her life.

**********

Wormtongue watched Éowyn’s departure with dark delight from the steps of Meduseld, gloating over this latest maneuver in his wicked game.

Without the light of his winter star, good King Théoden would fall into complete darkness, right into Gríma’s waiting hands. It would only be a matter of days before Théoden was under the complete control of Saruman’s power.

As for Éowyn, well, she was a fierce one—which was one of the things that Gríma loved about the lovely lady—and would likely survive the long journey. The girl would be no match, though, for the band of Orcs that the White Wizard would have waiting for her at the bank of the Anduin.

Saruman had promised Gríma that the girl would remain…unsullied, for she was a prize for Gríma alone. After a few months in a windowless dungeon in Orthanc, even Gríma would be a welcome face, and she would be so starved for comfort that he would easily bend Éowyn to his will. His loyalty and patience would be rewarded at last.

With a low chuckle, the sorcerer shuffled back to the castle, already rehearsing his speech to Théoden to explain his niece’s tragic absence.


	3. The First Kill

Éowyn watched many sunsets from the back of her horse, as she rode harder and longer than she ever had before. She did not stop for rest often, for she feared that every second she lingered idle was a moment closer to death for Éomer.

As the Ered Nimrais mountains disappeared behind her, she felt her soul lighten, for she no longer felt the weight of her duties as the Lady of House upon her shoulders. She imagined that she could exist forever in this wilderness, a free creature speeding through light and dark towards glories yet untried.

Her ride held little incident, and she met no other travelers on her path. She seemed the only mortal alive left in Middle-Earth, and although she had feared isolation before, this was a new sort of loneliness, one that she was able to transform from fear into strength. She let her hair flow freely behind her, and as the wind danced through the sun-kissed tangle, it seemed a pale banner that fluttered behind her, urging her forward to battle.

The journey had already taken longer than she had expected when she came to the country of the woods. She rode clear of Fanghorn forest, for she remembered the tales of dark beasts that craved the taste of human flesh. Fanghorn was so abominable that even the trees would reach out in threat, she had learned, and she had no wish to spend the last of her days in the belly of an oak.

Over the Wold she rode, across the river Limlight, until at last she came to the Field of Celebrant, and she cried out in joy to see a small circle of tents in the crook of the great river. But in her haste and inexperience she did not realize that there were no horses of the Rohirrim grazing in the grass, or that the camp seemed too still for a band of soldiers at day’s end.

Heedless of danger she rode forward, thinking only of reunion. As her mind swam with visions of crossing swords again with her brother at her side, she was snapped back into reality by a noisy blur that whistled past her ear. It was too big to be an insect, and too thin to be a bird. What had it been?

Windfola realized the danger before Éowyn did. The filly reared up in terror, almost throwing Éowyn as the rank stench of Orc-flesh reached her sensitive nostrils. Éowyn barely managed to hold on. As she re-established her control over the horse, she saw a band Orcs charging at her from the cover of the tents, their cruel blades drawn.

Her weeks of combat training were overcome by her instinct to flee. She had never seen even one Orc in the flesh, and the sight of five rushing at her, intent on her death, was too much for her to face. She cried out to her brother, hoping against hope that she had stumbled into a battle in progress, and that at least one Rider remained to come to her aid. But her cries were met only with the discordant laughter of her foes, and her only option for survival lay in the quickness of her steed.

Away she raced from her enemies, but the adrenaline that coursed through her horse could only sustain such a pace for so long, and the long days of hard riding had left it exhausted to start. As the voices of the Orcs lessened behind them, Éowyn hoped that she had escaped. She turned to see if her attackers followed, and to her dismay their feet seemed gifted with a supernatural speed that allowed them to keep pace with her horse.

Before her in the distance, a great forest appeared, and she knew if she could reach the trees she could hide herself. Her heart cursed her for her cowardice, but her mind knew that to attempt to face this overwhelming force would mean torment and death.

Closer the forest loomed, and she urged Windfola onward. Sure she had left her enemies far behind, she was shocked to find them not more than a hundred paces behind her, and she could read the malice in their faces. In that moment, another arrow flew at her head, and she ducked down close to her horse’s neck, her heart beating in fear.

She was only one hundred yards from the edge of the forest--so near to the lush cover--when an Orc arrow finally struck true and lodged itself into the flank of her horse. The beast gave an ear-splitting shriek of pain, and collapsed to the ground. Éowyn barely had time to move her leg before it was crushed under the weight of her companion, and she lay dazed besides the heaving side of the great animal.

 _“Move, Éowyn! Get up!”_ Her brother’s voice urged her in her mind. But as she struggled to her feet, she yelped in pain, and realized that she could barely put weight upon her left leg. She had twisted her knee as she had wrenched it from the stirrup, and she knew that she could no longer run.

Her heart in her throat, she felt the blood of her father burning within her veins as she stood on her right leg and drew her sword. For as Éomund had died in an Orc ambush--fighting even as his life-blood soaked the earth--so would his proud daughter.

When the orcs reached her, though, they did not charge. Instead, they circled around her slowly, entrapping her within a ring of their putrid odor. Éowyn fought to keep down her bile as well as her terror as she tried to face them all at once.

“Well, well,” a large orc came forward to her, his brow ridges pierced with large rings, “you gave us quite a chase, little one.” He sneered at Éowyn. “But now the hunt is over, and you have been caught.” He spat upon the ground, a brackish fluid that turned her stomach at both the sight and smell. “The boss didn’t say what pretty little thing you’d be. Maybe we should have some fun before we bring you in.”

At this the rest of the orcs sniggered in anticipation, dark lust gleaming in their yellow eyes.

It was this lust that was their doom. With a flash of Eowyn’s blade, the leader’s head rolled across the grass, lifeless. The fool had swaggered too close to her, sword idle, mistaking her for a cowering maiden, not a hard-trained soldier of Rohan. Her first kill.

Her victory was short-lived. The remaining orcs rapidly gathered their wits—and their fury—and charged her with weapons raised. Bracing herself, she wondered how many she could kill before they took her down.

Distracted by their screams of rage, Éowyn did not hear the whistle of death-wind behind her. Only when golden-shafted arrows seemed to simply blossom from the Orc’s chests, did she realize that she no longer stood alone in her battle. For behind her strode a half-dozen golden-haired swordsmen, their blades drawn and ready to taste Orc-blood, and behind them stood three archers, their arrows flying swift and true from their fine bows.

If she hadn’t turned her head to see her reinforcements’ approach, she would have seen the final desperate attack of the Orc archer. As an elven arrow pierced his black heart, he let one final arrow fly towards Éowyn.

As he died choking, he tasted the sweetness of victory through the tang of his life-blood, as he watched the battle-maiden collapse to the earth with his arrow lodged deep in her back.


	4. The Lady of Light

For once, Éowyn’s dreams were calm, filled with soft, mysterious whispers and green scents that eased her breathing. She was submerged in light, but it did not burn her; it felt cool and refreshing to her soul, and she did not ever want to leave this safe space. She thought she heard strange, musical voices calling her name, though, urging her to awaken. When she finally dared open her eyes, her breath caught in her throat, for she knew that surely she must be dead.

Beside her sat her mother, Théodwyn, glowing in golden radiance, more beautiful than she had ever been in life. Her mother tenderly stroked her cheek, and bathed her face with warm, fragrant waters that brought her even closer to consciousness. Éowyn tried to speak to her mother, clutch her nurturing hand, but found she did not have the strength to do more than whisper.

“Hush, little one, you need rest.” Théodwyn brushed a kiss across her daughter’s pallid cheek. “For you nearly fell into the abyss of death, and only by the grace of the Light were you spared.”

Only then did Éowyn clearly see that the woman beside her—though flaxen-haired and lovely—was indeed a stranger to her. In that moment, for the first time since her great loss, did Éowyn allow herself to weep.

She was sure she had failed her brother, and that he lay dead in an unmarked grave in a far field. She felt like a fool for believing she could be of any aid to the Rohirrim. How could she be a soldier if she had nearly fallen in her first battle?

The golden woman said nothing while she cried, and brushed aside the girl’s tears tenderly with her moist cloth. Once Éowyn’s sobs had quieted, her caretaker sang softly in a language both alien and musical, and Éowyn could not help but slip back into the forgetful relief of sleep.

It seemed days before she awoke again, and this time she felt peaceful and rested. The golden woman was beside her still, and this time she held a cup of sweet tea to Éowyn’s lips. The warm fluid washed through Éowyn’s body, bathing her aching spirit with rich nourishment. After her long drink, she looked intently upon her guardian, and was pleased that her great beauty was truth, not a hallucination of fever-dreams.

“Good Lady, who are you?” Éowyn asked softly, her voice still a shadow of her true strength.

The fair woman smiled gently in amusement.

“You know who I am, Éowyn, daughter of Éomund.” Her voice was deep and rich, unlike any woman’s voice Éowyn had heard before. “Since your girlhood you have heard tales of me, both true and wildly false. I am Galadriel, Lady of Lórien, and I bid you welcome to my home.”

Éowyn was speechless in amazement. Surely she must still be dreaming, as the tales of her youth sat breathing before her! However, as her gaze locked upon the Lady of the Wood’s star-lit eyes, she knew in her heart that this was real. This was no vision brought to life by a wounded mind. For in those eyes lay honesty, a beauty both timeless and unquestioned, and Éowyn felt herself falling into pools as cleansing and deep as the sea. Galadriel blinked, and Éowyn remembered herself, and finally took stock of her situation.

Her chest was swaddled in healing cloths, and she knew by the deep ache that blossomed under her right breast when she moved that she should have died when the Orc’s arrow had pierced her lung from behind. The Lady of Lórien must truly be powerful to heal such a grievous wound so quickly and completely.

 _“That I am, child,”_ a melodious voice rang in her head. Éowyn looked up in shock to find Galadriel’s eyes twinkling into hers, _“but had my wardens not been so quick to return you to me you would have been beyond my aid.”_

“I thank you, great Lady, I am forever indebted to your mercy and skill,” Éowyn spoke aloud, shaken. She was deeply uncomfortable with the knowledge that the Lady had been inside her mind, and could freely enter it at will.

“Do not be frightened, Lady of Rohan,” Galadriel spoke in her clear voice, “and do not despair. Your brother, Éomer, is well. He is a strong captain, and leads the Rohirrim to many victories.”

“How do you know this?” The old fireside tales of the White Witch rekindled caution in Éowyn’s mind, stories of deception and manipulation.

Galadriel’s eyes narrowed, and once again her voice echoed through Éowyn’s mind, verging on the edge of anger.

_“No mere Witch am I, girl-child, to lure braggarts to my bed for amusement and power. I walked among the forests of Middle-Earth long before the_ _Atani,_ _your people, were awoken by_ _Illúvatar_ _. I can see far beyond the borders of time and earth, and I would suggest you show a bit more respect when addressing me.”_

Éowyn was deeply ashamed, and dropped her eyes to her lap, afraid to look at the great Lady. But Galadriel’s next words were calm, bearing no trace of ill will.

_“Trust me, Éowyn. I know you have lived long in a house of growing sorrow, and you become more calloused each year that your soul remains trapped under its roof. You are welcome to rest here a while, until the wounds of both your body and mind heal. No harm will come to you as long as you remain here among the Galadhrim. Now sleep a bit more, for although you may feel strong you still have much healing before you.”_

Galadriel’s hand felt smooth and warm as it brushed Éowyn’s cheek, and Éowyn fought the urge to press her lips upon the unmarred skin in gratitude. She blushed a little as the Lady smiled, sure she had read her desire. The last thing Éowyn saw as she drifted back to sleep were those star-lit eyes, and she could almost feel herself riding beneath them upon her horse, free and wild as the wind dancing through the fields of Rohan.

**********

The days blurred together in the house of Galadriel, and Éowyn’s recovery was swift. Once she was strong enough to stand, she walked her chambers with the aid of Galadriel’s attendants. The danger had passed, Éowyn no longer required the great Lady’s constant vigilance. Though she was glad to be healing well, she missed Galadriel’s radiant presence.

Still, Galadriel would visit her every night, bringing her freshly brewed tea and medicine. Of all the lush beauty of Lórien that Eowyn could see from her window, nothing was more soothing to her heart than her luminous caretaker, with her hair of spun gold shot with silver, her eyes bright with tenderness. Whenever Galadriel glided into her room, Éowyn felt a stirring in her heart that warmed her even more thoroughly than the sweet, spicy tea.

It had been so long since Éowyn had felt truly protected and cherished by another. At times she would close her eyes and imagine the sure hands tending her wounds were that of Théodwyn. In those moments she could almost remember the tenderness of a mother’s love, though deep down she knew that the Lady’s care for her was that of a healer for her patient. It was enough, though.

In these hours Galadriel would sing to her in Elvish tongue, ancient ballads crafted by the finest bards in all of Middle-Earth. In turn, Éowyn would tell Galadriel some of the soldier’s tales, though they sounded rough to her ears in comparison to the songs of the Elves. Galadriel would listen intently, which Éowyn suspected she did only to humor her. But whenever the Lady laughed, it made Éowyn’s heart soar, and as soon the sound died she ached to hear it again.

But still the shadows lingered in Éowyn’s heart, and once the Lady left her for the night, Éowyn was faced with long, lonely stretches of darkness in which to whisper her fears. Although the wounds in her chest and knee were healing, her heart was still wounded. She dreaded her eventual return to Rohan. She would have to face her brother, and explain not only her foolish quest, but her bitter defeat; and her beloved uncle, who was surely worried sick about her.

Whenever she would begin to lose herself in her fear and sadness, she would instead turn her thoughts to her beautiful healer. She did not understand the low stirring in her belly when she remembered Galadriel’s soft hands upon her skin, or the strange melancholy that would fill her she recalled the haunting songs Galadriel crooned in her deep, enchanting voice. Confused, Éowyn would sleep, and her dreams were filled with silky, moon-pale flesh and melodious sighs as sweet as the wind rustling through the mallorn leaves. Whenever she awoke in the morning, though, she would be left only with ghostly impressions, bewildered at the dampness between her thighs.

**********

It was another half-cycle of the moon before Éowyn was allowed to walk without aid, and only then was she permitted to visit Windfola as she grazed upon the sweet grasses of the forest. She was overjoyed to see how healthy and content her horse was, as last she had seen the filly she had lain in a pool of her own blood on the battlefield.

“These Elves are truly gifted healers to bring us both back from the brink, my friend,” she spoke softly to the animal, feeding it ripe apples.

“Indeed, we are,” a familiar voice said from behind her. Her heart leapt as she whirled around, and found Galadriel, her step so soft that Éowyn had not even heard her approach.

“Soon you both will be ready to return home,” Galadriel continued, approaching the mare. She stroked Windfola’s groomed mane, which Éowyn noticed was filled with tiny, deft braids. “I know you uncle Théoden misses you dearly.”

Éowyn’s face darkened. “I cannot yet return.”

She turned away from the horse and the Lady, and faced into the darkness of the forest.

 _“You have not failed your people, Éowyn. You fail them only if you refuse to return to them.”_ Galadriel’s soothing voice caressed Éowyn’s mind.

The shield maiden turned suddenly to face the Lady of the Wood, her eyes tormented.

“But what if the only desire in my heart is to remain here in Lothlórien, to stay the days of my life in the splendor of these trees, to bask in the radiance of your—”

Here she faltered, struggling not to betray her heart, though she knew that Galadriel could pluck the words out of her mind if she so wished.

_“My radiance will stay with you always, child, for the love of the Lady of Lórien is not given lightly. And indeed I have come to care for you, Éowyn, and I will always treasure the memories of our hours laughing and singing under my roof.”_

“And how do you love me, my Lady?” A boldness crept into Éowyn, born of desperation and confusion. “As a patient? A daughter? A friend? For I know in my heart that I love you deeply, but am unable to find the title fitting for the depth of feeling I have for you.”

Éowyn was shocked at her own forthrightness, and for one moment, her heart burned with the surety of her emotions. But the fire turned to ash when what she saw reflected in Galadriel’s star-lit eyes was a tender pity.

She knew that look, and despised it. Her uncle’s eyes had shone with that same sympathy when she had arrived at his home, freshly orphaned; and Éomer had gazed upon her with the same expression when they had spoken on the eve of his march. Éowyn had had more than enough of pity.

Without giving Galadriel time to respond, Éowyn ran away into the forest, her heart shattered like glass.

**********

Galadriel stood a while with the mare, stroking it’s soft mane, and tried not to let her sadness overwhelm her. She had not intended to hurt the girl. She knew Éowyn was not yet ready to return to Rohan; she had merely meant to prepare her for their separation. Their parting would be bitterer for the girl than she had hoped, it seemed.

 _“It will be bitter for you as well, beloved.”_ Celeborn’s rich voice floated through her mind, as familiar as her own thoughts. _“Though you hide your true feelings from the child, you cannot hide them from me.”_

He appeared beside her then, his silver hair shining in the sunlight, his austere face impassive. He had brought a large carrot for the horse, though, and when she bit down on it eagerly a ghost of a smile touched his pale lips.

Galadriel sighed inwardly. _“I do not try to hide them from you, husband, but from myself. You know as well as I that she cannot remain with us, although it would gladden my heart to keep her near me for the brief years of her life.”_

Celeborn’s gazed upon his wife with no trace of envy, for it was not uncommon for Elves to take other lovers. Immortality is long, and the pleasures of the flesh far too many to be had with only one person. Their love was stronger than time, and although they shared their hearts and bodies with others, they knew that nothing could sever the bond between them.

“ _Already she has grown dear to me, more so than any other mortal woman who I have known. But she is so young, so freshly a woman, and unsure of herself.”_

“ _She is no common girl, nor any ordinary lady of kings. You yourself saw her potential in your mirror, and know she is a daughter of destiny. She will be pivotal in the dark days ahead.”_ Celeborn took his wife’s hand. _“It is the burden of men of great deeds to never know the depth of their own strength until the moment of trial is at hand. You must show her how much strength truly lays within her.”_

 _“Ah, husband, but she is a woman, and not a man. She doubts herself for this.”_ Galadriel replied. _“All her life she has been put to the wayside, hungry for the freedom allowed to the men of her people. She sees her woman’s flesh as a weakness, not something to be reveled in.”_

“ _Then you must teach her how to revel in the flesh of women,”_ Celeborn smiled then at his wife, a mischievous glint in his eyes, before his expression went serious again. _“For, if she does not find her pride in being woman, she will never be able to truly realize her own destiny.”_


	5. The Pool

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is NSFW.

Éowyn ran through the trees, heedless of where she tread. Her face burned as hotly as her heart, and she knew she had made a fool of herself before the woman she loved.

_“Stop thinking of her as such!”_ She chided herself angrily, and grew even angrier to find herself replying to her thoughts as if they were the Lady’s words in her head.

She knew now that she could not deny she had fallen in love with Galadriel, Lady of Lórien, and it was an toxic love. She felt sick at herself, and did not know what trickery had planted such perverted desires in her mind.

  _“If I had been born a man, then this would make sense to me. It would be right, and I might have had a chance to win the Lady’s heart. . .”_

Éowyn came to a sudden halt. There in front of her, hidden amongst a field of ferns and night-blooming flowers, a shallow lagoon rippled in the moonlight. She momentarily forgot her pain as she gazed upon the most glorious pool of water she had ever seen. The lure of the cool water was too great to resist, and she hoped it would help quench the acrid fire smoldering in her chest.

Looking around to make sure she was alone, she quickly stripped off her robes and stepped cautiously into the water. The briskness made her skin shiver deliciously, and once she was confident that the water was safe, she plunged under the surface. It was deep enough to swim in comfortably, but shallow enough to stand up to her neck in even the deepest places. Her sigh of contentment sent a flurry of bubbles to the surface, and her anguish seemed to float away with them. She could not be sad as long as she swam in these waters, and her tension bled out bit by bit with the strokes of her arms. Here she was at peace with her body, for the water did not judge her because of the form of her flesh.

_“Nor do I, little one.”_

Éowyn did not know if the voice of Galadriel rang true in her mind, or if it was just a manifestation of her grief. She kicked to the surface of the pool, and as her head broke the water, she saw the Lady of Lórien standing upon the banks of the shore.

The drum of her heart skipped a beat as she watched, dumbfounded, and the luminous elf-woman slowly parted her starry robes to reveal the moon-painted flesh that had haunted Eowyn’s dreams for weeks. The Lady looked right into Éowyn’s eyes as she undressed, and Éowyn dared not believe that she saw her desire mirrored in their depths. She tore her eyes away from the tempting sight, shame creeping through her.

_“Do not be afraid to look upon my body, Éowyn, for it is no shame to desire the flesh of your own gender.”_

Galadriel’s voice was soothing to the girl’s weary mind, and she ached to believe in Galadriel’s words as much as she ached to feel the soft skin that was unveiled before her.

As the Lady stepped into the pool, the water barely rippled as she parted the surface. Her golden hair tumbled over her naked curves, hiding her most secret places, but highlighting the lush swell of her smooth hips. Éowyn gasped as she noticed the Lady’s tiny nipple, pale as a newly formed rosebud, peeking unabashedly through the blond curls, and her lips trembled, imagining how it would feel to hold that tender morsel between her lips.

Galadriel approached the maiden, and her fair mane floated on the surface of the water like seaweed spun from gold. Although she was elven, to Éowyn she seemed a naiad of the old legends as she swam with unhindered grace to where Éowyn stood nervously, up to her shoulders in the pool.

_“Do not fear your feelings, my dear one, and do not deny yourself, or the truth that lays in your heart. For indeed you are woman, and powerful and beautiful you are because of it.”_

With those words, the Lady of the Wood leaned into the Lady of Rohan, and their lips met in a tender, burning kiss. Éowyn trembled against Galadriel in the water, and a small cry escaped from their kiss as Éowyn felt her body brush against Galadriel’s. Her own small breasts rested against Galadriel’s as they clung closer together, and she felt her graceful hands—those hands that had brought her back from the brink of death—slowly caress her shaking back as the elf’s tongue flickered across her lips.

_“Do not fear your desire, for it is returned freely. I sense no perversion in you, only a long-hidden realization that has just come to light. I will show you how truly glorious the flesh of woman is.”_

As the kiss deepened, Éowyn could no longer restrain herself. She flung her arms around the great lady’s neck and opened herself completely to her. So long had she repressed her passions, her inhibitions bled out of her with each sweet second she was in Galadriel’s embrace. Now those soft Elven lips were pressed to her neck, sucking gently as they kissed their way from ear to ear. Éowyn feared she’d go mad from their fluttering delicacy as she entwined her fingers in the Galadriel’s silken hair. Throwing her head back towards the stars, she let loose a wild yelp of ecstasy as Galadriel’s hands cupped the soft mounds of her breasts, the deft thumbs caressing the aching caps of her nipples under the water.

Galadriel pulled away, to Éowyn’s displeasure, but Galadriel took her hand and led her towards the shallower waters nearer the shore. As the pale globes of Éowyn’s breasts were exposed to the cool night air, her creamy pink nipples shivered erect, and Galadriel leaned down for a taste of their sweetness. Éowyn let out a cry as the Lady’s full lips latched upon her, and the twitching in her cleft became a rhythmic pound. Galadriel’s mouth was hot, and her tongue skilled, as she easily milked pleasure from Éowyn little buds.

“Enough!” Éowyn gasped. She pulled Galadriel up to her mouth for another long kiss. It was almost too much to bear, and the pleasure spreading throughout her body left her breathless with a need she could not explain with words. She had to see her Lady’s eyes, and was overjoyed to find not a trace of pity in her gaze.

_“Then this is done in love,”_ she thought to herself, and experimented with little kisses along Galadriel’s throat, shivering as the Lady moaned in expectation.

Éowyn reached a hand up, and cupped Galadriel’s sensitive breast in her palm. Squeezing gently, as if testing fruit for ripeness, she explored the milky texture of the skin, delighting mostly in the crinkled pucker of the little nipple. When she pinched it gently, Galadriel cried out softly in joy, and the sound increased the damp throbbing between Éowyn’s thighs. She licked the nub delicately, and was delighted to feel Galadriel shiver against her. Growing braver, she sucked the nipple into her mouth, carefully nipping at it with her teeth. The Lady thrust herself closer, trying to press more of herself into the hot mouth latched upon her.

Slowly, Galadriel pulled away again, and led Éowyn to the shore. There she laid the maiden down upon her spread robe, and covered her lithe body with hers as she kissed her neck again. As she moved down to her breasts, she slid her hand over Éowyn’s taunt belly, reaching lower to fondle the velvety skin of her muscled thighs.

Her body knowing what her mind did not yet register, Éowyn’s legs parted under Galadriel’s hands, and she shivered as the slim fingers traced burning lines across her flesh and cupped the golden-curled mound of her sex. Éowyn gasped asGaladriel slipped a delicate finger between her untried folds just as she slid her tongue between Éowyn’s lips. The Lady swallowed the girl’s moans as her finger danced around the firm center of Éowyn’s greatest pleasure, and Éowyn bucked her hips up to meet the maddeningly light strokes.

Galadriel rained more kisses across Éowyn’s burning nipples, and then lower across her stomach, sliding between her legs. Her fingers never left the wet cleft, even as her kiss-swollen lips played with the downy curls on the girl’s mound. Then suddenly, it was the Lady’s tongue, not her finger that swirled around that secret bump.

Éowyn writhed underneath Galadriel’s skilled mouth, tangling her fingers in Galadriel’s damp hair. The tongue lapped at her softly, then roughly, and then softly once again, and Éowyn felt so full of pleasure that she could burst. A pressure was rising within her with every lick, but she was not afraid. This was so good, so right, and she struggled to keep her wits lest she faint from the bliss.

When she thought she could bear no more of Galadriel’s tongue in her folds, she felt a long, narrow finger slip in to her virgin channel. Éowyn bit her lip so hard she tasted blood, but she felt no pain at this first entry. She had long ago lost her maidenhead in her many hours of horseback riding, and only exquisite bliss coursed through her young body.

As she was manipulated both from within and without by quick tongue and gentle fingers, Éowyn lost herself. Her back arched like a great bow, a wordless cry rose from her throat, and her universe centered on the brilliance resonating like a deep song from the core of her being. And then all was still again, as she collapsed back to the earth, shivering as the Lady withdrew and curled her body protectively around Éowyn’s sweating form.

They lay in the silence for a while, savoring the feel of their silken skin pressed together, until Éowyn moved a bit, and heard Galadriel moan softly in her ear as Éowyn’s arm brushed her breast. She knew then that her Lady had not yet reached her completion herself, and she wanted nothing more than to bring Galadriel the same joy she had just tasted.

Springing upon Galadriel with renewed vigor, Éowyn kissed her as she caressed her, and tasted her own salty-sweet juices upon Galadriel’s lips. The secret flavor excited her even more, and she feverishly delved her tongue into the elf’s mouth, almost as if she were practicing for what was to come.

She moved the kiss lower, down Galadriel’s graceful throat, between the sweat-speckled breasts—leaving one more wet caress on each of those sweet little nipples—and across the flat expanse of her belly.

Éowyn felt as if she were a traveler in a land both foreign and familiar; since she had always lived in the body of a woman she was accustomed to its topography, but she saw it now with new eyes as she explored it with her hands and tongue.

Finally she came to the secret mound, and the Lady’s soft curls seemed almost silver in the moonlight. Tiny droplets of dew clung to the gossamer hairs, and Éowyn tasted one with the tip of her tongue. She found Galadriel’s fluids not salty at all, but sweet and intoxicating as wine, and it coated her mouth like honey as she slowly ran her tongue across the crevice. Galadriel moaned, and thrust her hips up to meet the girl’s questing mouth.

Although she had never tasted a woman before, she was guided by both instinct and Galadriel’s instructive words in her mind, and she learned quickly how to bring her Lady to shivering release. Licking the hard kernel of Galadriel’s pleasure with her tongue, she marveled at the heat of the lady’s channel as the velvety wet flesh constricted around her fingers. She knew Galadriel was close to completion by the rapid rhythm of her hips, and Éowyn worked her tongue more furiously. Although her jaw ached, her minor discomfort was lost in the determination to feel her Lady release in her mouth.

She did not have to wait long, for with the quickening of her pace came a quickening of Galadriel’s breath, and she could feel the sweet tension building and squeezing around her fingers. Éowyn slid a third and final finger within her, and Galadriel’s body went rigid. Éowyn’s face was bathed in a wave of the sweet fluids, and she lapped them greedily, until she looked upon Galadriel’s face.

Her eyes were flashing a bright and frightening white. She made no sound although her mouth was open, as if her scream had lodged itself in her throat. Terrified, Éowyn ceased her work, and the moment her fingers left Galadriel, the elf-woman seemed to dim, and became only a panting shadow of herself. Éowyn rocked her, calling her name, her heart frozen in fear as her Lady did not respond.

Then Galadriel turned her head to Éowyn, and smiled radiantly, and with her smile the color returned to her naked flesh. She was once again herself, if not glowing all the more brightly.

_“There, my sweet one,”_ Galadriel whispered in Eowyn’s mind, _“do you not see the pleasure that womanhood brings?”_

“I do with you,” Éowyn replied softly. She kissed Galadriel again, almost shyly.

The two women cradled each other on the shore of the pool, wrapped in the cloak dampened with their sweat and mingled juices, and fell asleep with the taste of each other on their lips.


	6. Decisions

“Théoden King? Uncle? Where is your sister-daughter? Where is Éowyn?”

Éomer stood before his uncle, who did not appear to understand his question, nor even truly realize who he was. Freshly returned from the long ride with the Rohirrim, he had known something was amiss when he did not see his sister waiting for him on the steps of Meduseld as he knew she would. He had gone to her chambers, and found them empty, and as he ran through the house, calling her name, he was met with the sorrowful glances of the king’s stewards, who refused to tell him anything until he spoke with his uncle.

Éomer had been shocked to see Théoden so frail and sickly upon his throne, wrapped in drool-matted furs, his once-golden curls only unruly wisps of spidery threads. The sentience was gone from his eyes, and he appeared an ancient man, not even a ghost of his former strength remained within him.

“She is gone, Lord Éomer,” Gríma’s voice floated to Éomer’s ear in a harsh whisper, “gone seeking her brother. She could not bear to be parted from you for so long, and stole to the fields in the dead of night more than three months ago.” He stepped into the light, and took his place on the hard bench at the king’s right hand. “We sent what Riders we could spare as soon as we understood what she had done, but they returned empty-handed.” Gríma’s voice choked sorrowfully, “I’m afraid the shock of losing his beloved niece was too much for your poor uncle, whose heart was already heavy with grief. I tried to bring him what little hope I could, but alas, I am not fair and gentle as your sister, and lost the good king to his despair.”

Gríma smoothed the king’s tangled hair, and Éomer had to fight the urge to bat his ugly hand away from Théoden’s face.

“Then I will find my sister, be it only her cold corpse so that I may lay it to rest.” Éomer’s face was stony with determination, and Wormtongue mused at how similar the siblings looked in their anger.

“Go, good Éomer, and bring your sister back to her rightful place within the walls of Meduseld. Let her know how her folly has cost your uncle his mind, and her country its king. Tell her she is to blame for the ills that fell upon this house!” Gríma let loose a sob, and he buried his face in the king’s furs.

Had Éomer been in his right mind, he would have inflamed at the bitter words unleashed at his dear sister. But seeing Théoden so shattered by Éowyn’s abandonment left him angry at her as well, even as he sought to bring her to safety. He thought she had understood him on that last night, understood her duty to her people. Though he loathed to leave the king alone again with Wormtongue, he was comforted that at least his cousin Théodred would sit with his father in this dark time.

Without any rest, he rode back into the fields alone, and began his search for his sister, praying to all the gods of all the peoples of Middle-Earth that she still lived.

**********

Galadriel came out of her meditation to the smell of herb-bread and freshly brewed tea. When she opened her eyes she caught a secret smile from her servant as she left their breakfast upon Galadriel’s bedroom table before leaving with quiet grace.

Éowyn shifted in the sheets behind her. As she nestled her warm, narrow body against Galadriel’s, the lady basked in the sweetness of her flesh. Galadriel did not need sleep, but there was no feeling more comforting than to wake up to a loving face in the morning. She did not want to deny her new lover that pleasure.

For several weeks already she called Éowyn thus, and it brought a greater light to her eyes as she thought of the human woman’s sighs and caresses. Never had she met a girl with more vitality, and their sweating nights of pleasure were as tiring as they were exhilarating.

But doubt nagged at the edges of Galadriel’s thoughts, though she was able to hide it well from her lady-Love. She knew the time for Éowyn’s departure was at hand, as she had already tarried long after her wounds had healed. The longer Éowyn stayed in Lothlórien with her, the more difficult their parting would be.

“Something ails you, my Lady,” Éowyn murmured into Galadriel’s graceful ear.

The Lady smiled, pushing back her thoughts. “Only the knowledge that I cannot remain in this warm bed with you all day, for there is a council I must attend with my husband, Lord Celeborn.”

At the word ‘husband,’ Éowyn’s eyes darkened. Galadriel sighed internally. This is why most of her relationships with humans never lasted very long. They became very possessive over her, and though Celeborn graciously shared his wife’s heart, most Men could not understand the idea of more than one love.

Galadriel attempted to soothe her lover’s ruffled feelings with a soft kiss, but the mood had been spoiled. Yes, the girl was already far too attached to her, Galadriel noted as Éowyn turned away, rising to dress herself. But Galadriel could not help but drink in Éowyn’s strong curves and golden skin, and her sex stirred as it remembered the feel of the damp flesh under her fingers, the earthy taste of her sap. With no time to act upon her desires, Galadriel also rose and dressed.

“I will see you again tonight, my dear.” Galadriel planted another kiss upon her Éowyn’s fair lips, and was relieved to feel the love in them had returned so swiftly. Éowyn was quick to anger, but also quick to let it leave her. 

**********

As Galadriel departed, Éowyn watched her go in silence. It seemed that some troubling thought was always flickering in the corners of Galadriel’s mind whenever they were together, framing the edges of those azure eyes with rings of worry. They would dissipate quickly with Éowyn’s kisses, and for that at least she was glad, and it made her confident that it was not her that brought such turmoil to her Lady’s core.

Already Éowyn’s mind did not wander back often to the rugged terrain of Rohan, and with each passing day her soul felt most at ease under the lush canopy of Lórien. Although at times her heart would ache for her uncle’s smile or her brother’s rough embrace, it was soothed by the memory of Galadriel’s smile. Éowyn dreamed that she could remain forever with the Elves, learning their enchanting songs and elegant ways, basking in the love and peace that had been withheld from her so long under Théoden’s roof.

Here, she was loved. Here, she was appreciated, never judged. Here, it was good to be woman, and her gender did not cripple her in the eyes of her companions. Already she had ridden though the forest in the company of other Elf-maidens, something she had never had the pleasure of doing in Rohan, and their jaunt had been filled with laughter as their horses skipped across the roots and leaves of the blessed country. Yes, Lórien was now her home, and Lady Galadriel her love. She could renounce the ways of Men forever, knowing that when her life came to an end, it would be the Lady’s gentle eyes that would remind her of rich life she let behind.

She made up her mind then, sitting upon the Galadriel’s bed, where the perfume of their love-making still clung to the sheets. She would not return to Rohan. She would never see Éomer become the great lord he was destined to be, and the thought saddened her. She would miss her brother dearly. But she knew that the sacrifice would be worth every second she breathed in the arms of her Lady, where Éowyn knew who she truly was. 

**********

_“My beloved, the time has come.”_

Celeborn sat across from his wife at their great meeting table; all seats empty save the two they occupied. _“I feel it to the very marrow of my bones.”_

_“I do as well, my love.”_ Galadriel looked calmly across to her husband, and on the surface she seemed as cool and regal as always. But he could feel her soul as easily as he could his own, and he tasted her bitter woe on the back of his own tongue. He did not envy Galadriel, and he knew the conflict that raged in her now.

No, not conflict, but sorrow. There was no question that the girl had to return to her lands, her people, but it was that knowledge that brought his mate such grief. 

_“The rumors of evil in the East have indeed revealed themselves to be true,”_ _Galadriel thought,_ _“and I fear that within the decade we will once again face the unquenchable fire of Mordor.”_

_“Not unquenchable, my lady. There lays hope as long as the One Ring eludes the Nameless Enemy’s grasp.”_

A shiver ran up Celeborn’s spine as he remembered the muddy field upon which Sauron fell. An even deeper chill gripped him remembering Isildur’s smug face as he had emerged from Mount Doom with the One Ring still in his gloved hand.

_“Those times are long past, husband, and though we would wish it, we cannot undo the treachery that befell us all that day.’_ ” Galadriel’s eyes sparked as cold and pale as fresh ice. _“However,_ _we can seek to ensure the survival of all that is good in Arda in this time. We have much work to do, and so little time to do it all in.”_

Celeborn listened silently, and when he next spoke, his mind-voice had become even more solemn.

_“You know then, as well as I, that our days here will soon be at an end. We all can hear the calling in our dreams, even as we walk in the sunlight. Soon, we shall return home to Valinor.”_

At this Galadriel bowed her head, and she did not want to think about the future she had seen in her mirror, of her lonely crossing across the western sea without her husband at her side. It was only a possibility, not yet a truth, and they would not face that hard bridge for several years to come.

_“We will speak of that matter later, my love. But think of it also in this manner, were the Lady Éowyn to remain, you would still have to leave her at the shores of the Havens, as you know she cannot accompany you upon that voyage.”_ His voice was kind, yet resolved, and Galadriel heard the deep truth within it.

She had long ago accepted her separation from Éowyn, even as she had tended to the girl when she lay under death’s hold. Never had she truly entertained the notion of keeping her, although in the private corners of her soul she had let the fantasy play in her mind. This was much like letting a beloved pet back into the wild, a difficult deed that left both keeper and captive better because of it.

_“Her people seek her, and within the week they will arrive at the borders of our forest. Let her return to them freely, rather than hoisting her upon her brother’s saddle like a screaming babe. Grant her the opportunity to return to them proudly, though she will not see it as such. She has learned much with you, but her lessons here are at an end. You helped her find the honor within herself, and no greater gift can you give her.”_

Galadriel swallowed hard, attempting to wash the lump of regret from her ivory throat. Yes. It was time to let the horse-maiden run free again. She only hoped that she had not already unwittingly imprisoned Éowyn’s free spirit in a stable of false hopes; for the mare that has been barn-spoiled will burn within her stall rather than flee the fire, and Galadriel knew that the years ahead would hold little but smoke and flame for all creatures of Middle-Earth.


	7. Severing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter NSFW.

_She could smell the blood. At times she swore she could feel it dripping through the rumbling roof of the cavern, but all the icy drops that splattered upon her stony face were merely the lime-rich waters that constantly wept from the ceiling of the ancient cave. Above her head the battle raged, and she was surrounded by terrified women, who sobbed as they clutched their wide-eyed children closer to their bosoms. Éowyn stood apart from them all, nearest to the barricaded door, feeling more imprisoned that protected._

_Her sweating hand was tight around her sword hilt, ready to taste Orc-blood if the need arose. At first, she had been bitter beyond words that the warlords had insisted she stay below with the rest of the women. But the dark-haired man, the one who made her heart pound each time his burning blue eyes fell upon her, had pulled her aside._

_“Lady, you know how badly undermanned we are. We do not have the luxury of leaving a garrison behind to protect the women. You must be our last defense, for if all the men fall on the field, there will be none to stop the black forces from sweeping in and slaying all the helpless ones. You must protect your people, Lady of Rohan, you are their final hope.”_

_So she stood at the ready, damp with cold sweat, praying that the soldiers above would be enough to hold the fortress. She knew that this sanctuary would quickly become a tomb once the cave was breached, and their safety within it was held only by the strength of the door before her._

_A young woman, no older than sixteen, approached Éowyn. The gentle hump on her belly betrayed her condition, and she felt a deep pang, knowing that the girl’s husband would not likely witness the birth of his first child._

_“Have you any news, my Lady?” The girl’s voice was soft, but strong, and it did not tremble._

_Éowyn sighed. “No word has come from our men, save for the clatter of the battle that gets closer and closer to us.”_

_As if to punctuate her words, a high scream, a death-cry, reached their ears. Still not quite to their door, but still too near, and Éowyn knew the time would soon come where she would be put to the test._

_“You should return to the rest of the people. This is no place for a woman in your condition.” Her voice held authority, but edged with a fear she tried not to betray._

_The girl studied Éowyn’s face a moment, searching her with depthless brown eyes. Satisfied, she turned back to her blankets, and began rummaging in her roll._

_Another pained yelp echoed from behind the door, and Éowyn’s body became tense with the hot rush of adrenaline that surged though her. She had glimpsed the hordes of orcs upon the horizon, and knew that their cruel numbers would be far more than she could take alone. But she would be damned if she wouldn’t die trying._

_So lost in her thoughts she was that she did not realize that the pregnant girl had returned._

_“Child, I told you—” Éowyn lost her voice as she noticed the fine bow in the girl’s work-worn hands, an arrow already strung from the full quiver slung securely across her back. Determination aged her young face, making her appear a woman twice her age._

_“My husband taught me how to use a bow many years ago. In the fall we hunt deer for winter meat, and my skill has not lessened with my condition. If I can fell game as well as any hunter, then I can fell orcs as well as any soldier.”_

_Éowyn was astonished at the girl’s courage, and her heavy heart lightened with hope. Éowyn clapped her hand to the woman’s shoulder, as she had seen the men do many times in their camaraderie, and the girl covered it with her own. Bonded as warriors, each feeling stronger for the other’s presence, they resumed their anxious watch._

_Their display did not go unnoticed by the rest of the refugees. Slowly, another woman approached them, a wicked dagger in her hand. She was followed by another bearing a rusty sword, and another, with a pair of kitchen knives. Soon, most of the younger women stood, clutching what little weapons had been left behind by fearful husbands, brothers, and fathers. Those that were mothers kissed their little ones tenderly as they left them in the bewildered arms of their grandmothers, and joined the swelling numbers at the door._

_They were all tired of cowering in fear, tired of waiting for their fate. They would fight for their lives, the lives of their children, and ultimately, the survival of their people._

_The all looked at their Lady in expectation, their fear barely hidden by a thin coat of bravery, and Éowyn had to bite her lip to keep from weeping at their noble display. Ragged these women were, hungry and terrified. But they were so resolute, prepared to follow their Lady into death. They trusted her wisdom and leadership, and no general could ever have been prouder._

_Suddenly, the clamor above grew louder, and Éowyn thought she had heard the call of retreat through the door. The vibrations through the floor grew stronger, the screams and clash of swords closer. The women eyed each other nervously, as with steel in their blood, they all watched, and waited to beat death back from their door. . ._

Éowyn awoke with a strangled cry, clutching her sword and sweating in the dark. She had not meant to fall asleep, but the warm mossy patch she had found in the forest had been too inviting not to lie upon for a while. When she had drifted off, the patches of sky between the golden leaves had just begun to hint at orange, and now that it was black above she had no idea how long she had slumbered.

It took her a long moment to shake her bleary panic. The dream had seemed so real, so frightening! It took many shaking breaths to clear the fog from her head, and only then did she realize that she no longer lay in the glade.

She sat up, confused, and took stock of her surroundings. She was in a courtyard of sorts, hollowed out from the hills around it and held with a stone wall. A clear creek bubbled across the border of the courtyard and out into the forest, to join the great river Anduin miles away. What commanded her attention, though, was the waist-high stone pillar in the center, living greenery twining with the stone vines carved into its surface. Atop it was a deep basin filled with crystal-clear water.

She looked closer at the water, and it seemed that she could see forms moving within it. Was this a home to fish, or other small aquatic creatures so blessed they needed a revered space to live? She leaned in more, and the shapes swam faster, blurring together, and she was utterly captivated by their dance.

All at once, it seemed that the water split open, and Éowyn was looking into a window rather than a pool. There, through the portal, she could see her uncle Théoden upon his throne, more sickly and weak than she had ever known him to be. It chilled her to the bone to see the once strong lines in his face deepened into aged furrows, and he appeared to be a man of over one hundred years. She saw Éomer as he approach their uncle, still wearing his blood-spattered armor, and she breathed a sigh of joy to see that he remained unharmed. She could not hear their words, but it appeared that the King did not even respond to her brother’s presence, and that troubled her greatly. Théoden was an emotional man, though he tried to hide it at times, and would have reacted strongly to news of the battles Éomer had just come from.

The images blurred again, and Éowyn saw her empty chambers in Edoras, just as she had left them. But here sat Éomer in anguish, his head clutched in his great hands, and his body shook with heaving sobs. It was only then that she truly realized how much she must have been missed in Rohan, and she wanted to comfort her brother, call out to him, tell him that she was well, and happier than she had ever been.

Just as she found her voice, the image shifted, and Éomer rode alone through the country she had passed through when she had journeyed blindly to the Field of Celebrant. No banner flew behind him, and his face was hard as he rode swiftly, his eyes roaming, tracking. She was then filled with guilt as she realized that it was her that he searched for. Maybe she could find him, ride out to him, and tell him of her choice so that he was no longer tormented. If he knew she lived safely, then surely he could live in peace, couldn’t he?

Without warning, the surface of the water erupted into seething bubbles, as if it were boiling, but the droplets that were flung upon her face were still icy. Ignoring them, she was lost in the rapid montage that assaulted her then, images she could not quite grasp before they melted into the next. Here she saw smoke and fire, peasants running in terror from their burning homes. Next, it was miles of orcs wielding gore-crusted blades, led by creatures more brutish and fearsome than she had ever seen. She then saw a fair elf she did not recognize from Lórien, accompanied by a stout and hairy man who wielded an axe. A third companion joined them, and her chest tightened as she recognized him as the man from her dream. The rugged stranger carried a terrible blade, and although she was not certain, she swore she could recognize the spires and high stone walls of the fortress they stood against.

 _“I must surely be dreaming now,’_ ” she thought to herself to calm her jangled nerves, but she could not tear her face away from the mirror. She watched, horrified at the great battle that unfolded before her, man after man plummeting from the walls under the swords and arrows of the orcs. The images grew darker, more desperate and swirling visions of blood, tears, and loss.

Suddenly, the bowl was filled with the image of a huge, hideous beast, a nightmare crafted out of her childhood tales. Its fanged mouth gnashed at her, and she imagined she could feel its hot, putrid breath upon her face as it swung its head down to her, revealing its passenger.

Far more fearsome than the monster was the rider, a figure too large and sinister to be a normal man. He was shrouded in layers of cloaks darker than the sky behind him, and bore a mace bristling with vicious spikes. The dark rider reared his horrid mount, and the creature beat its rank wings furiously, and the warrior swung his merciless weapon down towards her…

Éowyn ripped her eyes away from the mirror in terror, collapsing to the soil.

_“I must be dreaming, or this is some terrible sorcery to fill my mind with such foul images!”_

_“Sorcery it is, my dear, and yes, it can be terrible. But it is not done merely to frighten you.”_ Galadriel’s voice pierced through the clouds of Éowyn’s mind, and she looked up. Her love slowly approached her from a staircase Éowyn had not noticed before, her pale, bare feet padding soundlessly down each mossy step.

_“My mirror shows you what you need to see, though many of the images may not be true yet. Sometimes it reaches into the past, other times, into the future. Often, though, it will show the present, things that are beyond your sight.”_

“Then, these images may not be reality?” Éowyn’s voice was tight as she spoke aloud. Her uncle, the battles, the specter intent on her death…

_“I cannot tell you that, Éowyn. Only you will know in time if what you saw will become memory, or fall into dreams of what could have been.”_

Galadriel sat upon the bench Éowyn had awoken on, and held out her hand to the girl. Éowyn took it as she joined the Lady of Light, and she was comforted by her nearness. Éowyn leaned into her, breathing in the green fragrance of her sweet hair, and she lifted her face up for a kiss.

But she pulled back when she saw that her Lady’s eyes held not just love, but sadness. Attempting to push the mysterious visions of the past day from her mind, she decided to cheer her grim Lady with her good news.

“Galadriel, I have made a very important decision—” was all that passed her lips before they were stilled by Galadriel’s soft fingers.

“I know of your decision, dear one.” Her voice held none of the happiness that Éowyn had expected, and it surprised her to know the Lady already knew and was yet so serious. Éowyn had played over the scenario many times in her mind that day: the Lady’s beautiful smile, her overwhelming joy as they tumbled together to celebrate their long union.

It was then that it hit her, a possibility so awful that she hadn’t even let it play in all her fantasies.

“You don’t want me to stay with you.” It was a statement, not a question, and her voice was as cold and hard as her sword. She dropped Galadriel’s hand, and stalked off the bench.

“Little one—”

“Stop calling me that! How can you still think of me as a child after all we have shared together? Why don’t you want me to stay? Did I anger you? Or are you weary of me?” She was fighting not to cry, for she did not want to give Galadriel that satisfaction, who still sat as unflustered and calm as ever.

The Lady sighed slowly.

“Éowyn, daughter of Rohan, though your heart is here under the leaves of Lórien, you must set it free. You belong with your people, and already long enough have you neglected your duty to them—”

“I grow tired of always being told of what my duties are! Am I not entitled to some happiness? Or am I doomed forever to follow the orders of those who would rule my life to their benefit?” She spat, glaring at Galadriel.

“Indeed you act like a suckling babe, little maiden, to think only of your own pleasure over what is right!” Galadriel’s voice grew deeper with her fury. “Do you not think that it pains me to send you away? Do you not see how much happiness our time has brought me?” Her voice softened a bit, and her eyes seemed to stare into a far place that Éowyn could not see. “The world is changing, child, and you will fully grow to be a woman amid the dark struggles of war. You cannot hide in imagined safety from your destiny, for not even the forests will be able to shield you from the threat ahead. You must face the challenges with head high, and always keep with you the memories of our time together.”

Éowyn fell to her knees before Galadriel, anger melting into anguish, and with a final attempt she cried, “but I love you, my Lady! You have taught me how to love like no other could, have pulled me from the darkness into your light! Do not cast me back into that black pit, for I will surely die without your radiance to bring me hope!” She buried her face into Galadriel’s diaphanous robes, and her tears soaked into the gauzy fabric as she sobbed. “I need you, Galadriel, my lady, my love! Please, don’t make me go!”

**********

A single tear trailed down Galadriel’s cheek, so great was the pain within her now. She was truly torn, for it was one thing to know what one has to do, and another to actually see it done. She did not want to fully acknowledge just how much she had come to care for the shield-maiden, how closely she had come to letting herself love her in return. Had it been another time, she might have let the girl stay with her, but in this lifetime, it could not be so. Resolving herself, she called upon the deep strength she had fostered within her for millennia, and said the most difficult words that ever crossed her lips:

“I would not cast your heart away lightly, Éowyn, but out of duty to my people, and to yours, I must do so! For I do not love you as you do me. Although my feelings for you are indeed tender, they are not strong enough for me to betray what I know is right for something that can never be.”

Éowyn pushed herself away as she cried out in disbelief, and her eyes blazing with betrayal. Galadriel wished she could have spared the girl’s feelings, but she knew the best way to make Éowyn go was to wound her, make her want to leave. It broke her heart to see her lover so shattered as she clutched herself and sobbed, and she wanted to embrace her, comfort her, remind her of the good that had been between them. But she held her ground, and looked down upon the damp spot on her robe where Éowyn’s tears had fallen.

Without warning, Éowyn was upon her, her supple body pressing down upon her with the force of her momentum. Her lips hungrily sought out hers, and Galadriel could no longer feel the love in her kiss, only rage, the desire to possess what was no longer hers. She could have flung Éowyn off as easily as one of her wispy robes, but she only clung closer to her in silence. She would let her have this, one more moment, one more time. She could not truly harm Galadriel now, as she slowly began to shut her heart to the girl, and the hurt Éowyn now would carry for many long years might be softened a bit by this last illusion of control.

*********

Crying, Éowyn tore the Lady’s fine garment, revealing the creamy flesh she was so familiar with, and she sunk her sharp little teeth into the swell of Galadriel’s breast. Fury and grief fueled her lust, and she was not gentle with Galadriel as she shredded the remainder of the robes off her body, leaving her naked and vulnerable underneath Éowyn. She clung tightly to Galadriel as she sucked the pink nipples into her mouth, starved for the passion that had kept her alive for so many days.

Galadriel made not a sound as Éowyn ravished her skin with brutal kisses, but her body betrayed her desires as she arched up to meet Éowyn’s tear-salted lips. Éowyn roughly pulled the Lady’s legs apart, and delved her tongue without warning into the cleft that already ran molten, and the sugared taste of her juices drove Éowyn to lap more furiously at the velvety skin. She bit at the sensitive outer lips between licks, and Galadriel fought to not cry out with the mingled pain and pleasure. Éowyn buried her face between the hot folds, cleaving it with her tongue, as if she could crawl inside her, to stay forever within her body.

Then Éowyn was on top of Galadriel again, lifting her dress over her body, so they lay flesh to flesh one last time. Éowyn bit into the luminous curve of Galadriel’s throat, and thrust herself between her legs, as a man would. She gasped as her mound slammed against the Lady’s, both slits dripping and swollen, their little buttons of pleasure rubbing against each other in perfect alignment. She thrust again, and another electric thrill ran from the tip of her nub and radiated though her sex, dizzying her. She pumped her hips between Galdriel’s smooth thighs, and now the elf did not hold back her moans as she grabbed at Éowyn’s buttocks to guide her thrusts.

The wrath bled out of Éowyn with each moment they were joined, and she was filled with nothing but love for Galadriel as they writhed together in unison. Her movements became less raw, though no less feverish. Galadriel wrapped her legs behind Éowyn’s straining thighs, drawing her closer, and Éowyn felt the Lady’s teeth sink into the meat of her shoulder.

It was that bite that drove her over the edge, and she bucked her hips wildly, thrusting the tiny bud against Galadriel’s quivering wetness, and the world seemed to melt away under the incredible friction. And then, the fire erupted from her cleft, and she lost control, crying out and pumping madly upon her Lady, as she kept pace with each upward thrust. Her vision grew brighter, and it seemed that her Lady glowed more dazzlingly and more beautifully than ever as her face contorted in the ecstasy of their furious coupling. Their blue eyes met, and held open as they reached completion together as one. Their voices cried out together as they bathed each other’s already soaked crevices with their silky juices, their nodules throbbing against each other as if fed by the same heartbeat.

Before the last thrill of pleasure had ebbed its way from Éowyn’s body, Galadriel pulled her down for a lingering kiss. As their tongues melded together lovingly, Éowyn felt suddenly heavy with sleep, as she did often after their love-making. Languidly, she let herself drift off, knowing her lover did not mind when she dozed upon her without moving off her.

But before sleep took her completely, she felt Galadriel’s arms enfold her, pulling the tattered remains of her glorious robe around them both in a semblance of cover, and the last thing she knew before slipping away was her Lady’s whispered thought…

_“Good-bye, my little love. . .”_

_  
_**********

The moment Éowyn awoke she knew something was wrong. It was too bright behind her eyelids, and when they fluttered open, she saw open sky above her. It took her a moment to realize she was not underneath the forest canopy she was so accustomed to, and the shock brought her to full wakefulness.

She was dressed in her traveling clothes, and lying upon her battered riding cloak. Panic rising, she sat up, and saw her bags and neatly wrapped sleeping roll at her feet. Beyond them, no more than one hundred yards, was the forest, and she recognized that she had lain upon the very spot where she had fallen under the Orc’s arrow what seemed like lifetimes ago.

“No,” she said hoarsely. Leaving her belongings behind, she ran towards the trees. This surely must be a test to see if she could find her way back, she tried to convince herself, although she had known the bitter truth as soon as she had seen the pale morning sky.

Heedless of the tears than wetted her face, she rushed into the woods in her maddened grief. She could find her way back! She had wandered in these woods for weeks, surely Caras Galadhon would be large enough to find easily again. Running until she thought her lungs would burst, she paid no attention to the branches that seemed to be trying to pull her back. After what seemed like miles deep into the wood, she saw brightness through the trees. She hurried towards it, positive she had found the Elven city again. But when she burst into the light, she stood once again on the edge of the forest, right where she had run in.

It was only then that it truly sunk into her. Her Lady had abandoned her, for she had known that Éowyn would never have left willingly. She dropped to her knees, wracked with sobs, and screamed her love’s name desperately into Lothlórien’s depths, knowing deep in her shattered heart that no response would come, no Lady of Light would come to her aid.

She sat there, crying and pummeling her fists into the earth, until the sun reached its apex, and she was too exhausted to cry anymore. Cold reason slowly took hold of her as she slunk back to her possessions, and with relief she realized her mare grazed far in the field. At least she still had Windfola, and if she had been denied shelter forever in her beloved forest, then she must find shelter elsewhere.

 _“Go home, Éowyn. Return to Rohan. It has nearly been half a year since you have seen the banners of Edoras. Return to your kin, your kind. It is where you belong.”_ A little voice whispered in her head, and though she wished it was Galadriel’s voice, she knew it was only her own.

Whistling to bring the horse back to her, Éowyn gathered her belongings slowly. Were it not for the last lingering wisps of the Lady’s secret scent that clung to her fingers, Éowyn would have thought the past months had been only a dream. Maybe it would have been best if they had been.

In silence, she rode her horse across the plain, always looking behind her at Lothlórien as it dipped behind the horizon line, searching for a sign, a flash of light, any sign of farewell from Galadriel. But the magic woods stood as still as any other forest, hiding its people far better than a man-made fortress ever could. Once she could no longer see even the highest branches of the tallest trees, Éowyn gritted her teeth, and sunk her booted feet into Windfola’s flanks, urging it into a gallop.

The wind wiped her last tears from her face, and as the future opened up underneath her steed’s pounding hooves, Éowyn began to encase her heart back into the armor she had carried it in all her life. This time, she barricaded it further, fueled by the bitterness that only unrequited love can bring. Letting out a strange, guttural laugh, she vowed to herself that she would never cry again. She had shown her weakness to one person, trusted her, believed in her; in return, she had been betrayed and abandoned.

Away she raced from Lórien, away from Galadriel, away from her love. Faster and faster she rode, as if she could outrace her pain. Then, upon the horizon before her, she saw a black speck that grew larger with every second. As she got closer, she recognized it as a fellow rider, and she suddenly realized how exposed she was in the open fields lit by high sun. No fear gripped her this time, only resolution. She welcomed the battle, and drew her sword in anticipation. She would cleanse herself of her pain with blood, be it her enemy’s, or her own.


	8. Epilogue: Death or Glory

Dernhelm started out of her memories by the hobbit shifting uncomfortably under their shared cloak, and she poked him to remind him to be still. Merry stopped moving, and Dernhelm looked up through her helm to finally see the besieged White City. The moment of Rohan’s attack was near, and she thirsted to lose herself in battle.

Dernhelm fingered the fine sword hanging from her belt. It was not the sword her brother gave her, but a fine piece of elven smith-work. It was as beautiful as it was deadly: the golden guard was sculpted in the semblance of two horse heads, with the motif repeated on the engraved pommel. She had found it wrapped in her sleeping roll that first night after she had been banished from Lórien, a secret gift from her lost Lady.

Éowyn had locked it away in a chest after returning to Edoras with Éomer, knowing that even to look upon the glorious blade would threaten to melt the ice that she had carefully frosted over her heart. She had not taken it out until the evacuation for Helm's Deep a few weeks before, and it seemed fitting that she would meet her death with Galadriel's gift in her hand. Had she not seen herself fighting with it in her visions in the Lady's enchanted mirror?

Everything else she had seen in the mirror had come to pass over time. The only vision she had yet to face in reality was the final image that had flickered across its surface: the black warrior upon his winged beast. Long had that image plagued her nightmares, but now as Dernhelm, it ceased to terrify her. Nothing terrified her anymore.

Within layers of forged steel—both upon her body and around her soul—she felt a strange quiet settle upon her. No longer would she be told to stand aside, no longer would she be a slave to duty. She was captain of her own fate now as Dernhelm, hardened beyond sorrow and betrayal, never to be held put aside or abandoned again.

A bright light split the darkness and the highest tower of Minas Tirith sparked like a candle. A horrible _boom_ broke the silence. Éowyn’s heart beat even faster as she heard her uncle’s proud voice rise up in glorious song, more strongly and clearly than she had ever heard it. The great horns of the Rohirrim blared in unison, and as the Riders of Théoden finally charged into the battle, Dernhelm’s vicious laughter was lost in the clamorous rush.

Into war then! Into blood and steel she waded, into the horrors of the battlefield. Her fine blade cut deep and true, orcs falling before her mighty onslaught. Her heart thundered with the grim glory of war...until its music was drowned out by a blood-curdling screech from above.

She looked up. There, in the inky sky, was her nightmare made flesh, flapping down towards the battlefield on vile wings. On its back sat the black rider, his cloak billowing on the fell wind like pyre smoke, and for one terrible moment, it seemed the deathless pits of his eyes founds hers from under his great, spiked helm.

It should have terrified her. She should have turned her horse, and run from the specter of death finally come to claim her...but there was nothing left to fear. What could one nightmare do to a woman-warrior who was beyond pain and grief?

Nothing.

As the creature descended, landing mere paces from her beloved Uncle, Dernhelm's heart burned with fury.

_“Come then,”_ she thought to herself, _“to death or glory!”_

Raising her sword, the elven blade flashing like a beacon in the dim light, she spurred Windfola forward, ready to face her destiny at last.

 


End file.
